The whole world thaws
without you now.
Do the dainty tendrils
of spring rise up
in solemn remembrance?
Or are they like me, turning
dutifully toward the sun
in spite of your conspicuous

And so turns
the whole of creation,
tumbling on the axis
of season and cycle
with such reliability
you would mistake it
for a sort of detached

But no; look closer.
See the ivy clawing its way
across the boggy wintered earth,
and the squirrel misjudging
a branch, falling ten feet
before scrambling happily away.
Watch the sun with clouds
in his face, patiently waiting
for a lazy February breeze.

And those daffodil greens,
tiny swords slicing through
the burial ground where they sleep
three seasons of the year
before demonstrating
the meaning of the word
resurrection unerringly,
every time.

Just waiting for us
to understand.

Claire Juno, © 2023